


Exceptions

by temptemp3214



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29066928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temptemp3214/pseuds/temptemp3214
Summary: December 1st, 1969, the day of the draft lottery. Dan's mind is on Vietnam. Rorschach's is not.
Relationships: Dan Dreiberg/Rorschach
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Exceptions

**Author's Note:**

> Context: real-world event of the Vietnam draft lottery melded into Watchmen's timeline (Nixon is president, pre-Manhattan-in-Vietnam).

_December 1 st, 1969_

Daniel didn’t know much about Rorschach, even now.

He’d worked on the assumption that Rorschach wasn’t the type to pick up on body language, or grim themes being returned to, time and time again, in the short spurts of casual conversation they had on rare occasions. But the night before, staring up at the strip of the bare and starless black cut out of New York’s concrete sky, a leather-gloved hand had come to grip his shoulder as he’d found his words coming back to the same few things. Rice paddies and mutinies, haunted forests with rain-soaked steaming green leaves. Nixon, with his dark, unreadable eyes, holding Dr Manhattan like an arrow in a tightened bow, pointed to the east. _Soon, but not yet._

He didn’t know much about Rorschach, but he knew he was at least a few years older. Out of the age range. And, really, it just wasn’t _fair_ that Daniel had given up his youth to fight the fight few else would, only to have the threat of being sent to fight the fight he knew wasn’t necessary.

“Rich boys can get out of it,” was Rorschach’s attempt at comfort. It wasn’t much, not by itself – but the hand on his shoulder, the cold of the cloudness night, the way the orange glow of the streetlights glistened on the ground below them, still slick with the afternoon rain – it was enough.

And he’d spent what little money he had on a takeaway for the two of them today, after Dan had showered away the memories of that night’s patrol and slept through to midday. Just fries and beans for him, and Dan said nothing when he fell upon the beans like a starving man. The familiar cut and lines of his jaw, his rigid chin, stubbled neck. Fries and a burger for Dan. Kid food, Dan knew, but it was warm and tasted fine, and it was enough.

They weren’t patrolling tonight, Rorschach had said. They both knew why. They both knew that tonight was for sitting in front of the television, watching the same congressmen Rorschach talked scathingly about. Watch them dip their hands and pick out slips of paper –

His fork clattered onto his plate loudly, a gasp catching in his throat. Rorschach jumped, before going back to sawing away at his fries, cutting them into little cubes. Slower, now.

When Rorschach cleared his throat, he wasn’t surprised.

“Daniel.” Dan looked up. His mask swam and blurred before his eyes – _crying_ , at his age – and he looked back down quickly.

A gloved hand covered his own, the grip too hard to be reassuring.

“Rich boys don’t get picked.”

It didn’t feel like enough now. Not while his clock told him how close they were to –

He was reminded, with a sudden dread swoop in his stomach, of an incident a few weeks back. Rorschach had known his name since they first met, Dan revealing it in a stupid attempt at being charismatic ( _“oh please, Nite Owl’s my name out there. Just ‘Daniel’ is fine”_ ), but his surname – well no, he was sure Rorschach had found a way to find that out long before. But during a post-patrol cup of coffee Rorschach’s hand had come to rest on an envelope between them. An envelope he hadn’t remembered to bin. Rorschach’s gloved hand had traced around the edges of his full legal name, and then the signet of his high school, stamped into envelope with a flourish.

“Alumni?” he had asked quietly after a while. Dan had just cleared his throat, hoping it seemed like he was just setting a barrier around his personal life. Hoped Rorschach wouldn’t recognise the signet of one of the most expensive schools in the country.

And now, the hand on the back of his. Dan snatched it away, a white fire burning hot in his chest.

“I’m not _dodging the draft_ , Rorschach,” he spat out.

“Don’t see why not,” was the latex-muffled reply. Petulant, like a child. Dan stared at him, hard.

“You,” Daniel said, and the mask began shifting rapidly. He ignored it. “You, who won’t shut up about how important it is to do our duty, serve our country-”

“You’re already serving it. Just in New York, not Vietnam,” Rorschach said unhelpfully.

“Yeah,” Dan said bitterly. “Secretly. I don’t think I could use that as an excuse.”

Rorschach’s hand scratched along the thin line of his bottom lip anxiously. Dan jolted up. His blood felt too thin in his veins to deal with this.

“It’s coming on soon,” he said, managing to keep his voice steady as he wrapped his plate up for later. The temptation to just throw it away hung heavy in his bones – at least he could hear the trashcan clang afterwards, a welcome ugly noise to disturb his train of thought – but Rorschach, who had so little, had bought it. He swallowed, heading into the living room. Rorschach followed him, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. The room flooded with grey light as he switched the television on, and he sat down to flick through channels until he found the right one. “You can stay or you can go. I’m sorry I’m… I’m-”

A warm hand came to rest on the middle of his back. Rorschach stood near him silently, before sitting down next to him, rubbing his hand up and down in small motions, and Dan knew this was hard for him. They rarely let themselves go beyond a stoic soldier’s bond - every night one of them had needed the other stood out like a jewel in the mosaic of their time together. The day of Dan’s mother’s funeral. The time they’d stopped the kidnapping of a little girl, and Rorschach had been still and silent for hours after. As infrequent as it was, the only other person who he had anything resembling emotional support from was Hollis. Given Rorschach's uncertain approach to the comforting and emotional, he doubted he had anyone but him. 

Rorschach didn’t kick or punch or even freeze when Dan turned to rest his head on his shoulder. His arms held his shoulders steadily.

“Always other options,” he said softly. “Always a way. Could fail the physical examination purposefully.”

Dan just shook his head slowly, body as tense and tight as a taut wire. “All those-” and he had to stop, vision blurring and swimming before him. The light was fading, the tan of Rorschach’s coat blurring into grey. “All those coffins,” he managed, and Rorschach held him closer. They’d both seen the news footage. Coffins upon coffins, draped in the American flag, wheeled up into planes. The sombre voices of the news reporters. The heavy way Daniel moved around afterwards, his mind’s eye replaying the footage. And Nixon, skirting around what he really wanted to say as he offered condolences to the families.

“All those coffins, I…” Daniel released Rorschach slowly, smiling at him weakly before turning his head away, wanting to keep some tears private. “I couldn’t just… fail. Not on purpose.”

Rorschach made a _hurm_ noise. Then, “could get criminal record.”

That startled him so much he couldn’t help but laugh. When he turned, Rorschach’s mask was moving wildly.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to encourage that,” Dan said, poking his arm playfully. “I thought that was kind of the opposite of your – you know. Your whole thing. _Our_ whole thing.”

Rorschach looked away. Dan’s eyes raked over him, lingering on those cracked gloves, the fingers working nervously.

“Can always make exceptions,” he said eventually, so quietly Dan couldn’t be sure if he’d heard him right. He cleared his throat. “Just something small. All balances out.”

“I can’t,” Daniel said miserably, and Rorschach understood.

They were silent. Rorschach’s eyes stayed on the screen (he assumed; no way to be sure). Dan looked anywhere else.

“September fourteenth,” Rorschach said suddenly. Too close for comfort. Dan swallowed.

“Don’t,” he muttered, but he turned to look.

April twenty-fourth. December thirtieth. Rorschach’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck. There was another small line of contact between them, where the trench coat brushed his knee.

“Would go with you,” Rorschach said softly. Dan looked at him in surprise. The mask, as usual, was unreadable; the tightness of the jaw and the slight tremble in his hands, however, told a story by themselves.

“You’re in the age-range?”

“No – but I…”

October twenty-sixth. Neither of them listened.

“…Would find a way.”

“As Rorschach?” he asked softly.

The jaw tightened further. The latex distorted the reflection of the television.

“Water,” he thought Rorschach muttered, and he picked up a discarded glass from earlier from the coffee table, passing it to him. Rorschach looked at it silently before setting it back.

“ _Walter_ ,” he said, softer this time. Dan’s breathing stopped for a moment.

When he could speak again, his voice was quiet and careful. “Walter,” he repeated, and his head turned to look at the floor.

Dan swallowed. “And – your mask –”

“We’re partners,” Rorschach – Walter – said gruffly. “In New York. In Vietnam, if you – wouldn’t be able to bring my mask there. Would need to –”

Dan’s heart thumped furiously against his ribcage, like a bird trying to be set free. His face was flushed, he realised, lip swollen and heavy with blood. “You said – once you said no one gets to see your face. No one who knows you as… knows you as _you_.”

The television flickered on in front of them. Neither paid it mind.

And Ror – Walter was silent as he gripped the edges of his mask, rolling it carefully up past his nose. His cheekbones were solid, pale skin stretched over pale bone, eyes fixed steadily on Daniel as the mask came off completely, revealing a thick head of hair that he could see was red even in the dim light.

The face he had wanted for so long. The face he’d tried to piece together from shadows and silhouettes, from carefully watching each laugh, each grimace, to try and piece together a puzzle without seeing the pieces.

Daniel brought his lip into his mouth, biting down on it hard. He wanted to reach out and put his thumb in the hollow below his cheekbone. Run a hand through his hair.

“Can always make exceptions,” Walter said, voice close to breaking. He swallowed, throat working hard. "Know me... this way, too."

They were both still, like a bird when it first realises it’s being watched. Unsure whether to break out of its position – unsure whether to fly away.

When Daniel moved forward, Walter did too. He gripped the stiff canvas of his coat lapels, pulling him closer as their mouths met in a hot, hungry kiss that tasted of salt. An ungloved hand rested on his cheek, wiping carefully beneath his eye.

September twenty-sixth. November first. Neither listened. Walter pushed him back into the sofa, a knee between his thighs.

The trench coat fell to the floor with a sigh, and Dan’s hands weaved through pinstripes and shirt and scarf to rest on the bare skin of his sides. His head fell back, throat arched to the sky as he felt his belt being undone, and warm lips found the thin skin over the hollow of his throat, tongue pressing on his pulse.

When he had enough of his mind gathered he unbuckled Walter’s belt, hand slipping inside the pinstripes with too much ease to be entirely unpractised. His heart was in his mouth, skipping nervously, and the noise Walter made when he brushed him through his underwear made his hands shake.

December tenth. He came with a sharp gasp that was swallowed by Walter’s mouth. In the post-orgasm haze he kept his hand moving, and soon Walter collapsed onto him, breathing hard.

He threaded his hands through the red hair. Neither attempted to move. He was close to sleep by the time the body on top of him moved, tugging on his wrist, guiding him upstairs. It settled down next to him in bed, silent and breathing and warm.

*

The mask is still wedged between the sofa cushions when he padded downstairs the next morning. The sheets next to him had still been warm when he woke up; still heavy with the smell of rain and wind and silent, glistening alleyways.

Walter was sat reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. Not his usual one – Dan had banned that from his house one day, with pale lips and shaking hands, and it had never crossed the threshold again.

“Two hundred and forty-six,” Walter said, sipping his coffee.

Dan scratched his head. There was nothing in his stance to suggest that this wasn’t normal. Like Walter normally sat as – well, as _Walter_. Like the number was meant to mean something.

“Wha—” the question died in his mouth as Walter turned the newspaper so he could see. _DRAFT LOTTERY RESULTS,_ he read, and his stomach dived to his shoes.

“September eighteenth – number two hundred and forty-six,” Walter said, thumb picking at the tablecloth. Daniel decided not to ask how he knew his birthday. “If you were born four days earlier–"

“Would have been number one,” he muttered.

Walter just nodded, looking back down at the numbers.

He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Of course they wouldn’t talk about it. Of course it couldn’t happen again.

“What about you?” Dan asked softly. Walter, who had just taken a sip from his coffee, looked up in surprise.

The question hung between them for a few moments. When he looked down, Dan took it as a dismissal, turning to look at the fridge and keep his lip from trembling.

“Three hundred and thirty-four,” he said quietly. Dan let out a breath, steady.

“And if you were born four days earlier?” he asked, unsure why. A page flicked over.

“Thirty-three.” 

He turned. Walter’s face was pinched in something close to pain. Something flickered across his face, like a candlelight wavering.

“Partners in that universe, too,” he murmured, and Walter’s mouth twitched. Daniel moved past him, heart in mouth, fingers numb as the shaky images of Vietnam began to fade in his mind's eye. A hand reached out to brush his wrist.

They looked at each other for a moment, and time seemed to soften, distort, wrap around them like an embrace.

He traced the curve of his ear with a light finger. A wave of ice seemed to flow through Walter for a moment, and Daniel tensed, waiting for his finger to be torn from its socket.

Walter’s cheek settled into the palm of his hand instead, and he let a sigh shake its way out of his mouth quietly. New York rain lashed itself against the window, grey and familiar.


End file.
